


November 11th

by shambling



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, november 11th, rememberance sunday, uniform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: It is November 11th, and in the interests of diffusing a bit of racist idiot tension, Peter is in his bed dress uniform and on duty. Nightingale on the other hand...





	

**Author's Note:**

> A quick and dirty fic written on the train so apologies for typos, spelling and grammar.
> 
> Not really a pairing unless you really squint.
> 
> I just liked the idea of Nightingale in his ceremonial uniform, rather than the no.1 dress like Peter would wear.

November 11th. A little over 80 years since the end of the Second World War. A little over 80 years since Ettesburgh. 

And in this current political climate a little over 80 minutes til some seriously racist bollocks kicks off, which is why I'm currently struggling not to drip coffee down my No. 1 dress uniform, or spill it on the jag, or stare too much at Nightingale.

When he'd said we should go along to the big memorial this year, I had thought he meant in case anything kicked off magically, but in a display of surprising modernity, (he has his moments) he had said: "of course not Peter, half the wizards in the uk will be there, no, it just, well, it looks good doesn't it?" Being Nightingale he was struck suddenly dumb, as the English upper classes often are when trying to discuss race,/!: settled for: "the commissioner believes, and I agree, that we need to remind people of the diversity of our current serving forces."

And then he had gone a bit pink and hurried out of the breakfast room mumbling to himself. It would be adorable if it wasn't so exhausting, and only from him mind. My new criteria is that if a man born over a century ago can be modern about, well, anything at all, then you can be too Mr Racist.

He was right though, and so here we were, me in my number 1 dress uniform, ironed and polished and starched to gleaming by Molly, and he.

Well. I'd seen the regimental tie, I knew he'd fought in the war, but I'd never really caught up with the idea that the wizards were soldiers. Nightingale had explained in the car that enough of the remaining wizards, even those who had broken their staffs would be there, and so he felt no-one would pay him a second glance. I pointed out that he still looked 30 years their junior and he irritably pointed out his intent to use a glamour, just a small one, to suggest greater age to those around him.

But I digress. Because Nightingale had been in the war, and because he had been a soldier, in addition to his own No.1, he had a soldiers ceremonial uniform. Navy, like the police, but with flashes of scarlet and gold, a scattering of medals and what looked like two crossed staves on the crest. The might of the wizard army. I felt oddly weak at the knees. Christ the man can wear a suit but he looks even better in uniform.

I know you're supposed to spend the two minutes silence contemplating those who gave their lives, but I spent them contemplating Nightingale. He was far too British, repressed, and manly, to cry in public, but the hand on his cane shook just a little, and he had a keening, misty eyed look that was haunting. 

I don't know what everyone else saw, because I've had a lot of practice seeing through glamours, but I saw my guvnor, an old and painfully sad man, mourning for the loss of his friends. It gave me a moment, where I also had to blink furiously to maintain decorum and then the two minutes were up and noise returned to the world in a rush. 

Unfortunately it returned in a rush of racist shouting and I'm sure I heard someone say "darkie" like it's 1955 again, and I became very busy doing some serious policing and trying not to get blood on my good clothes.

Later, much later, we stepped back into the folly. Nightingale was still immaculate, having been absorbed behind police lines with the other veterans, and I had escaped with only one suspiciously bloody handprint on my clean shirt. Nothing Molly couldn't fix. 

We stopped briefly in the hall and Nightingale smiled mischievously, "you should wear that more often Peter, you look good in uniform".


End file.
